


Staring Into the Darkness

by non_canonical



Series: Our Lips Must Always be Sealed [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_canonical/pseuds/non_canonical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's so much history between them.  Sometimes they don't talk; sometimes they don't need to.</p><p>(Part of a series, but can be read as a stand-alone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staring Into the Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Technically a missing scene just before the end of _The Reichenbach Fall_

I wake to the sound of a zip rasping open, to the rustle of clothing falling to the floor.  I hadn't expected this; I'm not surprised.  The mattress dips as he slides under the covers.  Stale smoke, pungent in the near dark.  Ammonia.  Hair dye, in all probability.

"Mycroft." His voice is barely above a whisper.  He sounds uncertain.  Unusual for him, but this has been an unusual day.

He blinks when I turn on the lamp, and tries to burrow beneath the covers.  I drag the sheets down; I need to see him.

I was right about the dye.  I hadn't thought my brother capable of looking so drab, so unremarkable.  But that's the point of the exercise: to go unremarked.  I don't like it.  I don't like anything about this whole situation.

"You shouldn't have come here." It was foolish, sentimental.  I ought to send him on his way.

"Mycroft," he says again, and there's a huskiness in his voice that makes me acutely aware that he's naked.  Despite what John Watson thinks, I'm only human.  And it's been far too long since Sherlock climbed into my bed.

I edge closer, prop myself up on one elbow.  His chin is shadowed with stubble.  It's wrong, makes his face look ashen.  Corpse pale.  But his lips are the same delicate pink.  I know how talented they can be.  How he'll wrench free if he's not in the mood for that particular form of intimacy.  I won't take the risk.  Not tonight.

He slips out from under the bedclothes, a sprawl of white against the burgundy cotton.  He extends his arms above his head and he stretches.  A luxurious arching of his neck, his back; a tilt of his hips as he flexes the long muscles of his legs.  It's purely for my benefit, and heat ignites low in my belly.  He can't fail to hear my convulsive swallow.

He's cold, and his fingers stumble over the buttons of my pyjamas.  He pushes the trousers down over my hips, and when they tangle around my knees I kick them away.  Sherlock pulls me upright and I get a waft of something harsh and antibacterial on his skin.  A hospital smell.  I shudder, and it has nothing to do with the chill of his flesh against mine.  He tugs the jacket off my shoulders and his mouth latches onto a nipple.  He bites, harder than I should like, but it sends the blood pounding to my groin.

I fumble in the bedside cabinet, tear the seal from the bottle of lubricant.  He's on his back, half hard and waiting.  He pulls his knees up, spreading himself open for me.  Hurrying me along.  But this will be the last time for – it's difficult to predict with accuracy.  One year, at an optimistic estimate; realistically, closer to three.  I need this to last.

I press a finger inside and he squeezes around me.  It's a voluntary action.  His version of a tease.  I'm tempted to forego the rest of the preparation.  To shove my way in, and feel the clench and drag of him around my cock.  I slick a second finger and ease back in.

I'm merciless with him: I keep going until he's gasping, as close to begging as he'll ever permit.  I'm merciless with myself: I'm hard, have been for some time.  When I slick my erection it's exquisite torture, and I'm afraid that will be all it takes.  I shudder my way through a couple of breaths.  I'm in control again.  I push inside, and neither of us lets out more than a strangled moan.  Old habits die hard.

I start as slowly as I can.  Far too slowly for Sherlock, but his legs are hooked over my shoulders and he doesn't have the leverage he'd like.  He braces against me, and I want to commit it all to memory.  The tendons straining in his neck.  The way his knuckles whiten where he clutches at the sheets.

Sherlock's heels dig into my back.  He manages to tilt his hips just so, and then he _squeezes_.  It's too much.  I'm rushing towards the finish.  He's jerking himself at a frantic pace.  I can feel it in the rhythmic jolting of his body, but his eyes are dark and shining, and I can't look away.  He catches his lip between his teeth and he spasms around me, hard.  I'm thrusting, thrusting, and then my arms give way.  I bury my face in the crook of his neck as I come.

His skin is damp against mine, and hot.  He always flushes like this, redness spreading blotchily up his throat, along his collar bones.  He squirms beneath me, and I take my cue.  Force my wobbling limbs to hoist me up.  I pull out, but he's still loose.  I see white glistening inside him before the muscle puckers shut.

I slide a finger back in, catching him by surprise, and he clenches instinctively.  He's slick with lube.  With my semen, and I want to push it further in.  To lodge a part of myself inside him, deep and permanent.  I want to be with him through everything that lies ahead.  Sentimentality: it seems to be catching.  I ease my finger out.  Sherlock studies me, an embryonic frown crinkling his forehead.

"You died today." I'm stating the obvious; he doesn't mock me for it.

He reaches across me to retrieve my pyjama jacket, uses it to wipe his chest clean.  Then he vaults from the bed and disappears into the bathroom.  He leaves the door ajar.  It's not an invitation.  I let my head sink into the plump softness of the pillows, and I listen to the water drumming.

He emerges in a cloud of steam, working a towel between his shoulder blades.  I should shower, too.  I'm sticky – dirty – but I don't want to wash away the evidence of what we've done.  I'll regret it later.  He's hurrying into his clothes, and I get to see them for the first time.  A faded t-shirt, jeans, a hoodie.  Perhaps a little predictable, but that's his decision.

He bends to lace his boots, and then he's standing by the bed.  He turns his shadowed eyes on me; I think he may be about to speak.  But there's nothing more for us to say.  Sherlock leans down and turns off the lamp.  I hardly breathe, just lie still, eyes straining blindly.  I want to hear the door close behind him.  To register the moment.  Two years, maybe three – I've waited longer for him before now.

A whisper of denim against denim; a soft step muffled by carpet.  The mattress dips.  Sherlock's mouth presses against mine, startling the breath out of me.  I've no idea how he found me so unerringly in the darkness, but his lips are warm and very much alive.

And then he's gone.


End file.
